Buffybot's Big Adventure!
by Alex Wert
Summary: Do we really trust Spike’s electronics diagnostic skills? He’s an 19th century artsy poet who shakes the TV when he loses at Crash Bandicoot! Finally repaired in chapter 4, Buffybot goes on an epic adventure and meets many old friends along the way.
1. Chapter 1

**Author Notes: **Here's an old concept I had been working on about 2 years ago but put by the wayside when SFA went offline. I still haven't actually finished anything, so we'll have to see how it goes, but the first half is mostly done. Just needs some revision.

It's mostly an adventure fic with a little comedy intermeshed, especially once Buffybot strikes out on her own. Timeline starts at the beginning of season 6.

* * *

**October 2, 2001**

The flickering lights cast ominous reflections on the car windows as the car crept to a hesitant stop alongside buildings of the smoldering downtown core. When John opened the door his nose was immediately assaulted by gasoline fumes and the smell of burning lumber. Two cars that had been parked earlier on the same street were burning, their windows shattered and hoods smashed in, but their owners would be happy enough with not being present at the time.

"Jesus," said Neil as he slammed his door closed. "I'd hoped that I'd never get to see Sunnydale like this. Last thing this town needs is motorcycle gangs."

John agreed. Neil had only been on the force for a few years, yet he had already seen death and violence on a scale usually reserved for warzones. To John it was old hat, but he was surprised to see big city style gang violence. Usually things were indoor and local, they could sweep it under the carpet and no one would need to know. But this…

The police radio squawked at them causing Neil, still a little stunned from what was in front of him, to jump.

"Dammit," he muttered, and picked up the mic. "MacIntyre here, Susan. We're downtown, a block south of the park. A row of burned out buildings and cars, but we don't see any of the bikers at this time. Request the fire department send someone down here." He shook his head as he threw the handset back into the squad car. "Hell in a handbasket, John. Hell in a handbasket."

John snorted. "You're not old enough to say that yet. I tell ya, Neil, I picked the right time to call it quits." He'd had enough of the ritual eviscerations, wild animal attacks, and serial murders to haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life. This town had a thing for the occult too. It just creeped him out. He never thought joining a small town police force would be so trying. Even the legit accidents - like that gas explosion at the high school a few years back that killed the mayor - were gruesome. "Yessir, retirement's going to be nice."

"Party's at Crabby's?" asked Neil. They walked, picking slowly through the ruined buildings looking for injured victims to help, or possibly gang members to arrest.

All John could do was shrug. "Assuming it's still standing after this." He stood up straight and surveyed the damage around him. There was a motorcycle that looked like it had been dumped. A Harley.

"Looks like it could be one of theirs." John examined the bike, from its dented gas tank and bent forks back to its warped rear struts. "That's odd," he murmured. "That's got a chain attached to the frame." Rubbing his chin thoughtfully he followed the length of chain back where it came from - back toward the car park.

"Hmm?" Neil was a few moments behind John, crouching down to examine the bike for himself. "Think they were pulling something?" he asked. "At this time of night, nothing in the lot but lamp posts and shitty beaters." He started to follow John when another set of red and blue flashing lights added themselves to the eerie luminescence. Backup. It looked like Burke and Costanza. Judging from the bucket of chicken on the dash, that is. Following the second police car was the first of several fire engines that were approaching slowly through the wreckage. Already firefighters were jumping from their vehicles to begin their work.

John tapped Neil on the shoulder. "Hey Mac. Why don't you fill those guys in. I'll take a closer look at the bike."

"I think those guys are full of it already," retorted Neil. He straightened his cap and uniform to flaunt his respectability to the two larger officers who had arrived on the scene, then started to make his way to their car. John continued to follow the chain. It was definitely heading from the car park. It didn't make any sense to him. The only thing he could think of was that they were trying to tow something valuable; valuable enough to risk a Harley. But from the parking lot? Unless they were towing a person, like in the movies. He didn't want to think of that possibility. Should have retired last week.

The sound of loud V-twin engines roared in the night. John had let himself get distracted, his concentration had waned, and the two bikers surprised him. They came thundering out from the intersection to his right - he barely had time to dive from his feet as the inhumanly large bikers bore down on him, swinging lengths of chain. John escaped their wrought iron by inches, splayed out on the ground in gutter between the road and the sidewalk. The pavement had taken a heavy toll on him as well. He _really _should have retired last week.

The bikers turned away from him but headed toward the two police cars and fire engines.

"Neil!" John yelled, no doubt an extraneous warning. In the middle of the street, however, Neil MacIntyre had not taken cover behind any vehicle or building, instead pulling his revolver and standing down the onrushing bikers. John sprung to his feet as fast as his aged and aching bones could allow. He could not outrun a Harley, but tried to reach his young friend before anything could happen.

A shot rang out, and then another. The gang members had not heeded Costanza's shouted warnings, nor were they deterred by the gunfire. A swinging chain caught MacIntyre across the chest and sent him staggering to the ground. John stopped in his tracks as the officer fell into a crumpled heap. He pulled his gun and fired at the withdrawing bikers. It was probably one of Burke's shots that rang true as he was the closest officer to the incident. With a halted yell one of the two bikers fell from his mount and rolled for many yards before crashing to a halt against a lamp post.

Already Burke and Costanza were by their fallen comrade. He wasn't moving, not that John could see from many yards away. As he approached he could hear the firefighters who had come on the scene calling for an ambulance.

Neil's chest was collapsed underneath his jacket, the chain had crushed his ribs. Contrary to John's previous assessment, he was moving, weakly flailing his arms and coughing up blood as he tried to breathe. "John?" he whimpered from the ground. Neil struggled to sit up, but a firefighter held him still and told him not to try to move. "Did you get them?" Neil asked, showing utter disregard for his own condition.

"Yeah," John's voice caught in his throat. "We got one of them."

"Spectacular crash, too," Costanza added.

A couple more firefighters had arrived with first aid supplies and began crowding John and the other two officers out. When the ambulance arrived some minutes later to usher MacIntyre away, he had been slipping in and out of consciousness. The police were forced to stand back and let the paramedics do their work. Slowly they remembered the gunfight's other casualty.

John stood with Burke over the body of the dead biker. His traveling companion had long since left, riding off into the night from whence he came with little regard for the man left behind. _Animals_, John thought. Certainly they barely looked human. The dead man's head and shoulder had been scraped badly by the slide on the pavement, but it wasn't enough to remove all signs of the grotesque personal mutilation that he had previously suffered. The scarring was symmetrical and well formed, obviously intentional.

"It's amazing what these punk kids will do to get into a gang," said Burke, coming to the same conclusion about the markings. "Well, not so much kids. This guy would have to be pretty old to be built like this. _Jeez_. Muscles on top of muscles." Indeed he was big, and not just by police standards. The guy looked like he could have made a career as a strong man - not world class big but worth two bits a gander. Maybe three or four bits if you include how ugly he was.

The big body barely moved when John kicked it hard. His leather jacket said 'Hellions' on it. It wasn't a gang that John was familiar with. He kicked the biker again. "I hope Neil's alright." He gave a little shrug then turned away. "If you can take care of our friend here," he directed Burke, "I'd like to finish taking a look around here."

"Alright, sir." Burke waved Costanza to help him with the biker's body.

John went back to the first crashed motorcycle and its mysterious chain. This time he looked both ways before he entered the intersection, but this time there were no nasty surprises waiting to ambush him, thank God. At the end of the chain there didn't look like there was much, just a broken off tree branch or something of that sort. Maybe it was a PVC pipe, just twisted and torn away from a wall. At least there wasn't a body dragged from the end. John let his body relax for a bit. He didn't want to see any more blood and guts today, or the rest of his life for that matter. He just wanted to take slightly early retirement in peace and forget about his messy divorce and other violence.

When his mind finally put assembled what the object at the end of the chain was he wished that he had stayed wound-up. His eyesight must be failing him. It was a human arm tied by the wrist and wrenched free from its body. And in the middle of the lot- "Oh God!" It was a torso and lifeless head. John sank to his knees and sobbed. It was just too much for him to take in. They had pulled apart a young blonde woman with motorcycles. They must truly be monsters to kill someone in such a horrible way. This was even worse than when Frank got his face chewed off two years ago. Slowly he crawled toward the poor woman's broken body, dragging his limp legs across the grass, willing himself to her side. He needed to see her. He just needed to see her. Take in the sight of the blood, the tattered flesh, the anguish on her face, the aluminum U-joint...

What?

He collapsed at the woman's hip. She wasn't a woman at all. She was a mannequin. Not blood and bone but plastic and metal. The tattered shoulder and leg joints had wires streaming from them. Maybe it was some sort of animatronic. Sure was pretty though. No pain on her face, just a neutral expression with fine workmanship that Madame Tousseault's wax museum would be proud of. John sat up abruptly, instantly better. He hoped that no one else had seen his momentary breakdown. Ah, what the hell, he though, they'd only have another week to rib him about it.

Dragged in three separate directions he found her legs and other arm. Except for the joints, where the limbs had been torn from the body, all parts looked to be in good shape. It seemed a shame to let this animatronic hottie go to waste. It could make a good retirement project for him to try to get her running again. John discretely collected her parts and stuffed them into the trunk of his squad car. With all the commotion surrounding the riots and MacIntyre's injury he doubted anyone would notice that he had a well-sculpted mannequin in the back...


	2. Chapter 2

**Author Notes:** In this chapter, John seeks help from less than helpful sources that we all know and love.

* * *

Men are pigs. No defending them, they just are. And John would never deny it. In fact he was proud of it, which may have contributed to his train wreck of a marriage. The point is that it in no way surprised him to figure out that the mannequin was in fact some sort of high-end sex doll. Upon further inspection in his apartment that night, he had found that she had everything in all the right places - and the pouty lips and blank expression were a dead giveaway.

As he sipped his second beer of the night he pulled back the skin, which felt like vinyl from the inside, away from the damaged areas. By his third beer he was convinced that this robot was intended for men with a lot of money. The degrees of freedom in the joints he could see were too many to count, the materials were so lifelike that the body must have cost more than a new car. Inside he found a computer motherboard, but couldn't tell the specs off hand. It looked like it was powered from -

_ZAP!_

When John came-to early the next morning he phoned in sick. Susan told him that Neil was stable but would be spending the rest of the year in a body cast, or something to that effect. That called for a celebration. He flopped down on his couch in front of the girl and took a swig from his flat beer from last night. It didn't quite scrape the fuzz off of his tongue but it woke him up a bit. He needed something fresher to drink, and to wear. Something smelled like roast pork, which was odd since he had chicken last night. Then he remembered the capacitor inside the robot. Let the be a reminder to always discharge whatever you're working on before you fiddle inside. Oh well. It was discharged now.

John scratched his fluffy head as he thought. The capacitor must have been nearly drained when he touched it. A capacitor that large looked big enough to power a golf cart or a small car and surely would have killed him if it was fully juiced. He counted his blessings and took a shower.

The robot was starting to look a bit more complicated than he could handle on his own. A few replacement parts, some mending and rewiring he could do, but this? Once he got out of the shower he booted up his computer. Time to do a little research and recruit a little help.

* * *

"Hello. My name is John Whalin. I have a sex doll which I think may be one of yours and I'm looking for some technical help... No, I'm sorry. I don't know which model it is... She's blonde, about five foot two... Cindy?... No that doesn't sound right. She's got to be a high end model... Yes, a lot of posability. And wiring and a high voltage computer... You don't have anything that high end? Alright. Thanks." John hung up, more discouraged and confused than when he started. He had phoned every single sex toy manufacturer he could find that advertised products like his mystery girl and not one of them claimed to make her. He faced the possibility that this was a one-off product specially commissioned and if that was the case he'd have a devil of a time trying to track the manufacturer down.

* * *

Cousin Jimmy whistled from across the room. He never thought he'd whistle at a girl for her electronics content. 

"What do you think, Jim?" John asked from his kitchen. After sitting down with a soldering iron for several nights he just about gave up on the project, and definitely was not going to try it by himself. He had been off the force for only a few weeks, but he didn't want to wait. His cousin Jimmy was an electrician by trade and the best person he could think of (that he knew) to tackle this. He brought Jimmy a beer and took one for himself.

Jimmy harumphed. "I think you're in way over your head. I mean, what do you know about electronics? Thanks man," he said, taking the beer and opening it against his palm. "I think this is actually a bit beyond me, too. I could reattach all of the wires if I knew where they were supposed to go but if they're unmarked on both ends I'm going to be just slinging shit at ya."

"So you can't help me?"

"A bit. Only I'll do you one better. There's this kid who interviewed for a job at the company I work at. This was a couple of months ago. He didn't get the job because he was unbalanced mentally but he blew the aptitude test out of the water. If anyone can fix this I'm betting it's him."

Great. John might get this done yet. "Just one question. How unbalanced did he have to be to not get the job?"

"He insulted the boss's intelligence and then told him to suck it."

"Sounds like a nice guy."

* * *

"We have probed the Slayer's forces and have found them lacking. I think the time is right for us to up the ante, gentlemen." Warren struck his best evil mastermind pose on the cushy swivel chair in his basement. It was time for them to unleash their diabolical plans on the citizens of this little town but first the Slayer, the Holy Avenger, the _glavny protivnik_, their nemesis... well honestly it was Buffy from high school... she had to be out of the way. 

Andrew, the conjurer, pulled up a blackboard to the central position between the Trio. He split the board into three sections, one for each of them, and began writing in three colored chalks, one for each of them again. He was just a little too 'style conscious' for Warren's taste.

"As with the previous phase of our mission, we have each proposed one good plan for decommissioning the Slayer," Andrew began, once he had written their names in different fonts on the chalkboard. "As such we will each be given the opportunity with full team backing to execute our respective plans. The operations, which I like to call Operation Condor as a whole, can begin as soon as all the requisite materials can be accumulated. I could start right away with mine but I have some parts on order, six to eight weeks delivery."

"We have to be subversive," said Jonathan, "She knows that she's being tested. We have no idea of knowing when one of Buffy's spies could be looking in on us. We have to keep low and out of sight until it's time to act."

Andrew rolled his eyes. "No one is looking for us. You're over-reacting... Cry baby."

"Isn't there a parade you should be marching in?"

"Warren!" All three of them froze, including Andrew and Jonathan, who were just about to strangle each other.

"What, Mom?"

"There's a nice man here looking for you," hollered Mrs. Mears from up the stairs.

Jonathan's eyes went wild. "Oh God! We've been found out." He grabbed his model Millennium Falcon and stuffed it under his shirt, then started climbing out the basement's narrow window.

"Calm down, spaz," Warren hissed at him. "Coming, Mom."

Just as he thought. It wasn't Mr. Giles waiting with Buffy in the shadows waiting to send them to jail. It was just some non-descript middle aged man. He didn't have a clue what the man wanted, just so long as it wasn't Warren Mears: dead - or another robot.

"Hi, are you Warren Mears?" the man asked.

"Yes," Warren said slowly. "And you are?"

The man didn't answer that question, instead posing another of his own. "I hear you know something about electronics. A lot about electronics." Warren found the man intimidating. He was large. Probably big and stupid, but he knew how to stare someone down.

"I might. Is there anything you want."

"I was wondering if you could help me on a little robotics project of mine. Nothing too big, just a repair job."

Warren threw up his hands and looked to the heavens. "Will it never end?" he muttered, and walked away from the door. He went up to his room and got an old college course syllabus.

"Here," he gave the two sheet pamphlet to the man. "Take this course at the college. It won't make you a genius but it'll be enough to get you out of my hair. Now leave me alone!" Warren slammed the door on the man's face. God, he needed a drink. He got a Pepsi from the fridge. Ahh... that's better. The silence was broken by some more yelling and girlish shrieks from downstairs. What were those two doing now? Warren trudged down the rickety basement stairs.

Andrew was flailing about and climbing over a sprawling Jonathan.

"I wanna touch your magic bone!"

He's gonna have to get rid of one of them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author Notes:** In this chapter, Buffybot makes her comeback. Next up: the funny begins.

* * *

**August 14, 2003**

New York wasn't all that much different from Sunnydale - just in every tangible way imaginable... Bigger, polluted, full of crime and people scurrying about as fast as their legs could carry them. More fatalities but a whole lot less _mysterious_ ones. Somehow, though, John didn't notice the change. He was an obsessed man, rarely leaving his home, a bungalow in the suburbs, except for the necessities of life (_i.e._ pork rinds and beer) and repair parts for the object of his obsession.

The mechatronics course recommended by the now late Warren Mears had been useful but, with four months shy of only a two year community college program under his belt before the earthquake buried the town, John's progress with the robot had been slow, not to mention the difficulties with the purely aesthetic aspect. Radio Shack could get him all the parts he needed to repair her, but Fabricland or GE Polymershapes just couldn't do the same for her torn skin. Even his best effort after almost a year of experimentation still looked like she had suffered severe third degree burns around her shoulders and thighs, and across her chest where he had found a deep gash. Indeed, it was that deep gash that had caused his electrocution and subsequent lack of hair last year. The high voltage wiring needed to be replaced, but at least the capacitor was still okay.

Things_ were _coming together, though. Soon he would see the results of all his hard work. Last week he had began testing the reconnected limbs one at a time, powered and controlled from an external power source. All but the left arm had functioned perfectly... well, exactly as he _guessed _they were supposed to. The damage to her left arm was a bit worse that he could repair without a full mechanical rebuild, and he wasn't sure that he could do it. And it still worked fairly well, though it didn't have the full range of motion or the speed of her right.

Today he sat hunched over his laptop, peering at the mindless mass of assembly code scrolling down his LCD monitor. John knew the code well by now, and had used it to deduce the models of some of melted chips he'd needed to replace. Now he was looking at it for a different reason. Today he was going to try to fire her up for the first time.

She was plugged into the laptop through a thick parallel cable protruding from her belly. It was like she was a child, a newborn connected through an umbilical cord to her mother. Over the months John had begun to think of her as a person rather than a machine. How would his feelings change when she came to life? It was obvious now that, if the code did what it looked like it could do, she would do more than just fuck; she would be a startling approximation of a human being! What would she be like? What personality was she capable of? It was exciting yet scary at the same time.

John took a deep breath. The software was booted up and synchronized with the robot's on-board PIC. It was ready. He clicked 'run' and crossed his fingers and toes.

A second whisper of a humming sound joined the fan in his computer. A few moments later he saw her breathe, moving on her own for the first time. It was a beautiful sight. She was stirring, her pretty face turning to face his at the end of her delicate neck. Her lips parted and she spoke!

"ZZZZZzzzzhhhhhhrrrrrNNNNN... Tlick! Tlick! Tlick!"

John sighed. He had been so optimistic - too optimistic - that she would be perfect. The robot blinked up at him, sweetly. John met her gaze and smiled back at her. All was not lost. It was still a resounding success, even without speech. She was trying to sit up but fell onto her plump ass with an awkward thump. He searched the code. Her gyroscopes were returning garbage values, balance and attitude were in turn misguided. Speech functions were locked up at line 15024 and he had no idea why. That would be a bigger problem to fix.

"Well, Babe," he said to the struggling robot, "I guess I have more work to do. Hang tight." He grabbed a little screwdriver and was about to stop the program when her deceptively strong little hand grabbed his wrist. It was a good thing he'd gone to the bathroom earlier. A really good thing.

When the robot started reaching for his groin and stroked him delicately, he nearly fainted. It was almost too good to be true. When her hand started unzipping his pants, the tiny screwdriver fell from his fingers and disappeared under the counter, never to be found again.

He had kept her nude, since it was easier for him to access all her maintenance ports, but the more important reason was that he just liked to look at her. It would not be the first time he had indulged, but it would be hers. He booted up the program again, disabling the faulty speech module, and uploaded it to the robot. John unplugged the parallel cable and closed her belly port.

As she slid her hand into his boxers, he carried her to his bed. She was heavy, much heavier than she looked. A girl that size would only weight a hundred pounds or so; the robot, filled with metal and a large capacitor power source, must have weighed half again that much. Which still put her at twenty pounds less than his ex-wife (shudder). As soon as her naked back hit his sheets, her legs spread invitingly, and her arms reached out to bring him toward her. John let her take him down, and he continued to disrobe. He kissed her lips, full, warm, and wet - not at all like a machine. Her tongue forced it's way into his mouth, and his eyes shot open in surprise. The vixen machine writhed under his body, wrapped her legs around his thighs and her arms around his torso. She must have been programmed for pain because her fingernails tore into his back. He detected no problem at all with her left arm.

This was better than any real woman he had ever been with. She nipped lightly on his ear. The programmer was a genius! John's hand reached down for her breast. It was round, firm, small, but filled with the same warmth as her lips. With the robot running her nipple perked up under his fingers and, lord, she quivered beneath him. She had never reacted to his touch before, now she was perfect, his very own porn star.

After he finished, he would have liked to fall asleep within her embrace, but he had work to do. Painfully, he got up and went to find his clothes. The robot hurried to follow him but toppled off the bed and went crashing to the floor. He switched her off, and carried her back to his workshop. With a little luck, he'd have her fixed before she broke something. Else.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author Notes:** Get ready, world! Here's comes Buffybot to put marzipan in your pie plate, bingo.

* * *

**Five weeks later...**

"How are we doing today, my dear?" John asked as he booted up his robot.

Springing to life, the Buffybot said directly, "I have to return to Willow. I need service."

John peered out from behind his wiring diagram.

"That's exactly the same thing you said yesterday," he remarked. The work he performed to correct her gyroscope imbalance, while outwardly successful, must not have been enough to return her internal sensor results to operational specifications. Either that or there was another error that he just hadn't been able to find. That was what the wiring diagram was for.

Still, John thought it was amazing what he'd been able to accomplish. He was able to learn from her that her name was Buffy, a contrived and silly name if ever he heard one. For the past two weeks this simulated girl was puttering about, only occasionally falling down, and able to carry on a conversation. Usually the conversation was about getting repairs and finding someone named Willow, who John surmised must either be the robot's previous owner or it's creator or mechanic or something. "And just what is the problem with you that needs service?" If the robot was so talkative maybe she could help him help herself.

She puttered, internal CPU working for several seconds, her eyes - those cleverly disguised digital cameras - focusing at infinity until the diagnostic operation was over. "I/O port 7 on 555 timer reading ground fault. Cause unknown."

Dammit. John opened her up again. That just didn't make any sense. It couldn't be the gyroscopes, since they were working, if not calibrated correctly. He used his multimeter to check the wires from her damaged left arm. Though some of the numbers were low there was nothing present that could be interpreted as a ground fault, or cause a ground fault somewhere else.

"I don't know if I can figure this out," he mumbled to himself. He would need some better diagnostic equipment if he was going to track down the problem. This was going to take time, unless it was just a damned loose wire. He sighed.

"I'm going to the store, Buffy. Stay put." John was preoccupied with his problem. He never stopped to think that this was the first time he ever left the robot activated while he was gone.

* * *

Stay put? **Compute meaning:** Stay: 1. be, keep, remain. 2. period of staying. 3. rope or a wire supporting a mast, pole, etc. Put: 1. move so as to be in a certain place or position. 2. see putt (golf). Extrapolate to mean remain moving so as to be in a certain place. **Action acknowledged**. Will continue to be in a certain place. **Query:** How does one not be in a certain place? Action undefined.

Buffybot did not like having relations with this John. It was unnecessary and he did not have Spike's sexy abs. Having sex with this man did not facilitate her priority task at this time. She needed to find Willow.

**Search:** homing device...

Homing device not found.

To locate Willow, Buffybot needed more information. She found John's telephone and dialed 411.

"I need to find Willow. She's my best friend and a witch. She's recently gay."

There was no response for several seconds. "_Ummm... Okay_..." said a tentative female voice. "_Does Willow have a last name?_"

"Yes, she does," said Buffybot. This conversation was proceeding in a logical manner. Again she waited for the 411 lady to speak, but there was nothing. Was she alright? Would this be an appropriate moment to contact emergency medical services? Buffybot was computing the likelihood of the woman needing medical attention when she spoke again.

"_Hello?_"

"Hello!" Buffybot said, cheerfully. **Cancel computation**.

"_Well? What's Willow's last name?_"

"Rosenberg." Buffybot heard typing in the telephone's earpiece.

"_I'm sorry, miss. There's no Willow Rosenberg listed in the United States. Can I assist you in some other way?_"

There was a possibility that the 411 lady could help her.

"Are you capable of repairing high voltage electro-mechanical systems controlled by an Assembly PIC and packaged within a humanoid-shaped polymer autonomous vehicle?"

"_I'm sorry?_"

"There is no need to apologize, 411 lady. Thank you for your time."

It was apparent that she would not find anyone who could help her track down Willow in John's house. Buffybot needed to go someplace where she could. Without another thought, she opened the door and stepped out into the real world.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author Notes: **I hope all both of you who are reading this story are enjoying the quick updates. This chapter has a special guest star. He's recently gay.

* * *

New York was much taller than Sunnydale. Buffybot was unable to determine if this was a factor in the responses of its residents being significantly different than the predicted responses of Sunnydale residents. Whereas Sunnydale residents would typically greet her kindly in the street, with a statically insignificant few stopping to attack her or others in the area, the residents of New York appeared to be pulling their children away from her, staring and pointing, or changing their trajectory to avoid approaching within several meters of her. This disparity was confusing. 

Her first destination in her attempt to meet the people who could help her find Willow was the local library. Buffybot had determined that those who frequented libraries were a helpful sort of people so long as auditory communication was maintened at only low decibel levels.

Once inside the library she approached a middle aged woman with thick plastic glasses who was seated at a computer terminal. Judging by her faded gray wool knit clothing, she was likely the librarian.

"Hello," Buffybot greeted. "I'm looking for Willow. She's my best friend, and a witch. She's recently gay."

The woman furled her brow. She must have considered it a difficult inquiry.

"Is she supposed to meet you here in the library? What does she look like, I'll tell you if I've seen her." While confused and perplexed, this woman was kind. Buffybot's opinion of New Yorkers had improved quickly since her first few encounters. Not once had she been attacked and, during the latter part of her journey, the pedestrians she had approached had not behaved peculiarly. The demarcation point being after the man in black ran out from the church and gave her some nice new clothes to wear.

"No, she's not in the library. Willow has red hair and cute little freckles. She's a little taller than Spike and very thin."

"Well, if she's not here then I don't need to know what she looks like. How would you like me to help you?"

"I don't know where she is, and I need to find her."

The kind woman smiled at her. "I can help you with that, I think. We'll just google her name and see what we get."

Buffybot typed "Willow Rosenberg" on the keyboard and the kind woman clicked the mouse. She frowned.

"Porn site, porn site, lesbian porn site, femslash fiction... Your friend's not a porn star, is she?"

"Not according to the information in my memory banks." She calculated that the web sites had a small probability of being related to her Willow, given that they were accurate about Willow being gay and the fact that she was very attractive.

"Hmm... Doctor in New York?"

"She's a witch and a computer scientist."

The kind woman scrolled through a few more pages of search results.

"How about this one? Sunnydale High alumni page, class of 1998. Oh my god, a disaster at the graduation ceremony. How horrible." The woman clasped her hand to her mouth in shock.

"Yes, that's the one!" Buffybot beamed, happily.

There was no forwarding address for Willow listed on the web page, however the page did say that more information may be available to fellow alumni through the webmaster, a Sunnydale high graduate named Scott Hope. His contact information _was_listed, and was conveniently local to Buffybot's current location. The fact that Buffybot was not, in reality, an alumnus of Sunnydale High was considered but was determined to be unlikely to present a problem. What concerned her more was that she did not have any databank information on Scott Hope. It was probable that this was because her history with him was only limited and in that case it could be predicted that the meeting would go smoothly.

* * *

Scott loved these lazy Sunday afternoons. The work week was long and fatiguing, and the only things that made the grind worthwhile were these precious moments where he could cuddle up close with Ricky and share just being alone together.

The scalding hot coffee was slowly descending to a drinkable temperature, appropriately enough on their coffe table, nestled inside two matching mugs; heart shaped mugs, one reading Scott and the other Ricky. The former was laying back against the hard, muscled chest of the latter, both wearing matching, sickly sweet bathrobes, oblivious to the sugary sight they presented. Scott didn't care what certain people were saying about him, or taking vengeance for the compensation tactics he had used in his painful youth. He had finally made his choice, and now was happy, in love, fancy-free...

_Ding-Dong!_

Doorbell. Scott groaned theatrically and slowly made his way to his feet, making sure to grind every part of his body against as much of Ricky's body as possible.

"Oh, I was comfortable there," he griped. He stumbled toward the door. "Who could be bothering us at this time?"

Ricky knew. "Sorry, I forgot to tell you. Some girl phoned yesterday while you were out," he said in his gently lisping voice. "She said she was looking for a friend from high school. I said she could drop by today. I hope you don't mind." Scott just couldn't stay mad at him while he was making that pouty face. And it was okay. She probably wouldn't be anyone he knew particularly well and he could send her on her way with a minimum of fuss.

"Hello."

Sometimes you just gotta say "oh shit" out loud. But that's not polite so you try to restrain yourself.

Instead, Scott just said, "Buffy," and stood agape.

"Hi," she replied, brightly. "Are you Scott Hope?"

Huh? Was that a subtle insult? Revenge after all these years after he dumped her?

"Yes, of course I am, Buffy." Time to apologize. "Listen. I know we didn't split on the best of terms, and I know it was my fault. Entirely my fault." Geez, listen to him. He sounds like a straight married man. "And I'm so sorry for what I did. I'm not trying to make excuses, but I was going through a difficult time in my life back then. I wasn't sure what I wanted and I needed time and experience to come to terms with myself. And I'm sorry that I involved you in my own personal trials. Can you forgive me?"

Buffy blinked. "Am I supposed to know you?"

Well that's just cold. Affairs of the heart with men are just so much simpler.

"Fine. We'll play it your way," Scott said, in exasperation, throwing up his hands and gazing skyward. Vindictive much?

But Buffy did not seem to be vindictive at all. "I don't have any knowledge of you, though you seem to have knowledge of me," she said. "My memory is incomplete. I have been in an accident and require assistance, which is why I am searching for Willow. She's my best friend, and she's recently gay. Can you help me?"

That would explain the dazed looks and confusion. She was certainly not acting like the old Buffy. Scott wondered if she had brain damage. Not a lot of brain damage, just a little. In her line of work, not so secret after graduation, brain damage seemed likely.

"Yes, I know who Willow is. I don't have any direct contact with her, so no phone numbers or addresses or anything like that. I do know that she spends most of her time in Brazil now. Last I heard, she was vacationing in Rio de Janeiro. I could try to get in contact with Xander Harris, he'd probably know more, but he's kind of difficult to reach these days. I wish I could help you more, Buffy."

Instead of disappointment, she beamed. "That is adequate. I can locate her if she is within eighty miles." Right... the super-powers. "Thank you. I will now head for Rio de Janeiro."

She didn't seem angry with him at all, which was of course a huge relief. How was he supposed to know that he had been spreading gay rumors about a superhero? It's probably better for everyone if she doesn't remember that part. Though it's not like he was the only one who thought that she was...

"Before you go I was wondering..."

"Yes, Scott?"

"Did you ever hook up with Faith? You two made such a cute couple."

He could have sworn he heard her brain click. Buffy did answer promptly. "Not to the best of my knowledge. I like Faith. She's a fine bit of alright and not a stuck up goody-two-shoes like me."

"That's too bad, I guess. Good look on your trip, Buffy."

With that the ex left his house, and he was none the worse for wear. Surprisingly. _Funny_. She sounded a bit British there. Probably been spending too much time with the librarian. Wonder how _that_rumor turned out...


	6. Chapter 6

**Author Notes: **More fun with Buffybot. She's not very inconspicuous.

* * *

**Problem analysis:** Require funds to purchase airline ticket to Brazil. **Generate solutions**...**Populating list**...

"Excuse me."

Buffybot was standing on the street corner in Queens. She had left Scott Hope's house without considering the situation presented to her. It was an error in judgement that a computer should not have been capable of making, however Buffybot was not computing at her normal efficiency. It had taken until nightfall for her algorithms to inform her CPU that walking to Brazil was not a viable option.

"Miss?"

Find employment  
Beg for money, also known as 'grifting'  
Rob a bank  
Manufacture $100 bills  
Enter carnival contests  
Provide an in demand good or service

**ERROR**...

**PROCESS ABORTED**.**Repopulating list**.

A man was shaking her shoulder. Something must have momentarily jiggled loose. Buffybot postponed her calculation. It would be impolite to ignore him.

"Yes? How can I help you?"

The man fidgeted nervously. He was very plain looking, disheveled and dressed in a frumpy business suit. "I was just wondering... How much do you cost?"

That was a simple question, although Buffybot did not have the Bill Of Materials rundown for her construction, which was what she explained to him. In addition, the labor involved was not considered due to Warren not defining a value for his time.

"I'm sorry, not to buy. My wife would never go for that and I can't afford it. I meant to 'rent', if you do that."

**Query:** renting of persons...

Slavery is illegal in the United States of America and universally denounced  
Prostitution is a moderately socially acceptable practice involving a man paying a woman to use her body for sex  
The use of butlers and servants is widespread among the upper classes of most societies

"Are you suggesting prostitution?" she asked.

The man appeared more nervous than ever. "You're not a cop, are you?"

"No. I'm Buffy, and I am in need of money." It was unusual that such a straightforward solution was not returned during the earlier search through her memory banks. "I require one-thousand thirteen dollars and thirty-nine cents for a plane ticket to Brazil."

"I don't think I can afford that." He dug into his wallet. "I have a hundred and eighty?" he said hopefully.

Buffybot snatched the bills from his hand with a big, big grin. "Your offer is acceptable."

* * *

"What? I don't have to take this, Bruce!" shouted Eva between long drags of her cigarette. "I have seniority, and there's no way I'm babysitting the new girl for you. Find some other pushover to take care of her." She adjusted her bra, conveniently unencumbered by any shirt or blouse, and made to walk away from her pimp, like it was conversation over.

As if she'd ever get away with that around Bruce. "That's too bad," he said, drawing out his words to impart a subtly completely different meaning. "I thought you liked _not_being unemployed. My mind's maid up, toots." Who ever said 'toots' anymore?

"Fine. Only for you, sweetie. But you owe me, again." She _never_collected, sadly.

Eva sauntered over to where the new competition was standing a few feet away, and well within earshot. It helped if everyone was on the same page with how much she hated the new girl, Buffy, already. She was short, five foot nothing if she had to make a guess... blonde, funny nose, small tits. Sexy in a girl next door sort of way but, unlike Eva, was devoid of style, of _panache_, so much so that no one would mistake her for a hooker. Obviously an amateur, if that. Only someone _sooooo _bland could come up with a shit name like 'Buffy'. Hopefully she wouldn't drag down business too much.

She appraised her young charge, scowling all the way down her length. Where to start first? "You don't look the part, deary," she clucked disapprovingly at Buffy's apparel. She was wearing baggy jeans and a beige sweater that was hardly flattering. Then there was the flat hair and the near lack of makeup. The flip-flops on her feet didn't help the image. Eva half suspected that this was just Bruce's idea of messing with her. "First thing's first," Eva said while lighting another ciggy, "we need to get you a new wardrobe. You'll never get any work looking like that."

"I already have had work."

Eva paused mid suck. "You what now?"

Buffy just smiled her big, innocent smile at her. "I made one hundred and eighty dollars last night from a nice accountant named Brian. He wasn't chartered."

"Dressed like that?"

"No. He was wearing a suit."

_Right_... "We'll get you to do something with that outfit anyway. We don't usually have to spell it out but it helps if you're wearing something skimpy. If we can get you to take off your sweater and show off your bra-"

"I'm not wearing a bra."

_Sigh_. Of course not. That would make things too easy. "Tell you what. I'll take you down to the Goodwill. We can get you something slutty there for cheap. Then we can buy you some make-up and some pointy shoes. I hope you still have some of that money left..."

Later that night Eva brought a new and improved Buffy down to her corner. Gone was the sweater, dropped in favor of a red halter top that clashed with her green eyes. Her baggy jeans were replaced with pleather, still a little loose on her thin frame. White open toed platforms were the best they could find in way of shoes, but what do you expect from donations? Buffy had let Eva apply a generous coating of makeup to her cheeks and eyes. This someone had referred to as 'whore paint' and now Buffy wouldn't stop referring to it as such, despite Eva's protestations. But it looked good on her. It gave the wholesome Buffy an edge that she hadn't had before, while not removing all of the sweetness that had worked for her in the past. To top it all off, Eva mussed up Buffy's hair, letting it fall wherever it wanted and sending the long golden tendrils cascading every-which-way. Now she looked good. She was ready to go to work.

"Now Buffy, what were you doing the first time when you got a man to solicit you?"

"I was standing." She was still all wholesome and naive. It was really quite irritating.

Eva sighed. "But were you enticing him? Advertising yourself? Shaking your moneymaker?"

"If I was in possession of a moneymaker I would not require prostitution to purchase an airplane ticket."

Eva cringed. Sometimes it was painful, in an entertaining way, to listen to Buffy. "Your ass, dimwit. What actions were you doing when he approached you?"

"I was evaluating different methods of making money."

"Unmoving?"

"Stationary."

"Well, you're not going to make too much doing nothing. You gotta call them over. Chat them up a bit. Whet their appetite, if you know what I mean. Go up to a man and say 'hey fella, you looking for a little company?' Let him know that your offering the best he's likely going to get. Now I want you to go out there and try it out for size. Pick the next lonely looking man you see and bag him."

"Alright, coach!" she said and sashayed toward a group of passers by.

Eva's face fell. "NO! Not the priest!"

Then Buffy lead the priest back to their motel. _Damn, that girl's good_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author Notes: **Just a short little fun chapter here. I think I'm enjoying this story more than you readers.

* * *

"I really don't know what to make of you," Eva told Buffybot the next day. 

The robot turned prostitute didn't quite know how to respond to that. "I would like it if you didn't make me into anything else. Being Buffy is fine for me. And I don't think all the materials used in my construction are recycleable."

"Did you suffer brain damage or something? You act very strangely, even for a valley girl."

"Brain damage is likely," said Buffybot. "I was in a motorcycle accident." They were once again standing at the street corner, trying to drum up business. Buffybot struck her most seductive pose, but it was getting more laughs than customers.

Eva rolled her eyes at her. Buffybot, even in her dilapidated state, knew what that body language meant. She adjusted her pose.

"Geez, Girl, you really are something else. I've seen the scars on your shoulders. You're lucky you're not paraplegic or missing an arm now. But you keep trying, even if you don't have a clue what you're doing."

"Explain."

"Ass_out_, not _in_."

**Analyze:** Analysis of recommended sexual posture complete. That _would_make more sense.

"I'm sorry. I need service. That is why I'm trying to get money so I can find my friend, Willow. She's recently gay."

Eva shook her head. "You do have brain damage."

**Confirm**...

Cognitive subroutines are corrupted. Compute an 18 percent probability of socially unacceptable behavior. Computation has an error of plus-minus 6 percent.

**Library adjustment: **Do not tell people that Willow is recently gay. Gayness confirmed four years, eight months, twenty days before present time.

"How'd things go with the priest last night? He wasn't just trying to convert you or anything like that, was he?"

"He was apologetic, but very nice. I don't think he has had sex in a very long time. He gave me $200."

"Cool. You never cease to amaze me. And here I thought all priests were pedophiles."

"I think he was Anglican."

* * *

Nothing coming in from the squawk box. Officer Smith figured he'd just maintain his position and watch for traffic violations. It was a quiet night, but he was looking forward to going home and watching his tape of the Knicks lose to the Mavs earlier tonight.

_Hmmm... Couple of fine looking ladies walking this way. Slutty fine looking ladies. Better brush the donut crumbs off my uniform._

One of the girls, a petite blonde, spotted him sitting in his squad car. She approached with a nasty smile on her face. He didn't really notice the apparent shock on her friend's face. Smith rolled down the window and the blonde leaned seductively on the sill, giving him a nice view down her blouse at two small but well formed breasts.

"Hello, miss," Smith said cordially, while trying to ignore the building pressure down the front of his pants. Damn the too small uniform. He should really cut down on the donuts.

"Hi cutie," the girl said. "Aren't you handsome? How would you like to fuck me?"

He gulped. "Excuse me?"

"_Buffy! What are you doing!_" yelled the older brunette, but the blonde ignored her.

Buffy smiled and ran a slender finger across his jawline. "That's right. I'll have sex with you. I can do things that will blow your mind. I'll squeeze you until you pop like warm champagne. All for the low, low price of $200."

Eva smacked her hand against her forehead. "I'm not associated with her. Honest."


	8. Chapter 8

**Author Notes: **I'm not 100 percent sure but I think this qualifies as a crossover.

* * *

"That'll be thirty days and a two-thousand dollar fine." Judge Stone banged the gavel hard against the sound block with a satisfying _clack_. One more lowlife paying his dues to society. "Bring in the next defendant." And with that, Judge Stone stretched behind the bench in an undignified display of barely masculine scrawniness, the yawn he didn't even try to stifle growing large on his face. Such was typical of these late-night court sessions. 

"Another long night, sir?" Mac asked as he handed the judge his next case file.

Judge Stone nodded, still yawning wide enough to swallow a city bus. "You know it, Mac. Feels like we've been here all night when really it's only been half an hour. 22 minutes without the commercials. Who've we got next?" he asked, taking the file folder from Mac's dark hands.

"We have an old friend with a new sidekick, sir," said Mac, as the large bailiff marched in the two defendants. It was a familiar face in the court, back yet again. "People versus Eva Martineau and Buffy Summers." Eva was playing kittenishly with the bailiff, while her young apprentice was obviously taken aback by Bull's towering - and goofy - presence.

Judge Stone leaned his elbows on his bench and coyly addressed Eva. "Hello Eva. Good to see you again."

"Hi, your honor," she replied, equally coy. She really was good at this. "Always a real treat whenever I get to see you." Eva winked at him and blew a kiss.

"She always brightens our day, doesn't she, Mac?" Stone said, turning to his clerk. "So, what've we got? I guess I don't have to guess?" Mac nodded. "So, Eva, hooked your claws into one of our finest undercovers? Thought you should have met all of them by now. Maybe that's where your friend here comes in?"

"Only partly, sir," broke in Mr. Fielding, the prosecutor. "The officer miss Summers here attempted to advertise her services to was a uniformed officer on duty." Buffy tore herself away from her morbid fascination with Bull to beam at Judge Stone when she heard her name being called.

"Hi," she waved.

Judge Stone scrutinized the peppy, vacant blonde. "I assume some sort of color blindness is involved?"

"No sir. Officer Smith, who can't be here tonight, was on patrol in his squad car at the time."

"Right... You really are something, miss Summers."

"Thank you," she smiled widely.

"Mac," he asked in a whisper, "any signs of drug use or anything else that explains our Paris Hilton wannabe?"

"Nothing confirmed, but it's in the file," Mac replied in a slightly more discreet tone. "Officers noted that she acted as if she was on drugs but there were no signs of needle marks or damage to the nose. We haven't done any urine or blood testing on her."

The court's appointed defense attorney, Christine, entered into the huddle. "Judge Stone, I believe my client may not be fit to stand trial. She was involved in a motorcycle accident two years ago and I'm pretty sure suffered some head trauma. She doesn't seem all there."

"Like Heather Mills..." Judge Stone mumbled to himself as he read through the hastily compiled record on Buffy Summers, and quickly realized that they needed to be helping her, not persecuting. Young, born in 1981 in Los Angeles. Significant juvenile delinquency reported. Arson. Spent two weeks in a mental asylum at age 15. The attachment from social services lister her father in absentia. Mother deceased. Caring for a younger sister. Dropped out of college. Questioned on several other crimes but no charges laid. Resided in Sunnydale when that city was destroyed by an earthquake. No wonder the poor girl has turned to prostitution. Might explain the brain damaged behavior too. Most people probably would have checked themselves into Bellview by now if this was their lives. He let out a low whistle.

He watched with Christine at the poor girl's stunned behavior as she puttered around the courthouse. Dan was too busy flirting with Eva to pay attention to what was going on, so they discussed what to do without him.

"Obviously we can't just give her a fine and send her back into the wild. She'll be eaten alive. Possibly literally."

"I don't think the cannibal population of New York is high enough to worry about that," Judge Stone rolled his eyes, "but I do think she needs medical attention. At least some way where we can get her off the streets and start helping her out."

Christine snapped her fingers. "We can set her up in a women's shelter. They can keep her safe there and are maybe a bit more qualified to give a psych assessment than we are." Bull the bailiff stood in the corner quietly singing to himself while Dan Fielding followed a lady in too short of a skirt around the room. Judge Stone readjusted his dickey and had to concede her that point...


	9. Chapter 9

**Author Notes: **So I went on a trip that lasted almost two weeks, then I didn't feel like writing once I got back. It's been a while, hasn't it? Just a short chapter to get me going again.

We pick up our story with Buffybot in a women's shelter after being sent there after being arrested for prostitution.

* * *

Marta started her morning as she always did: she blew far too much money on far too little coffee at Starbucks, while being absolutely miserable to everyone she met until the cup was done. She was a slow drinker. Then she'd go to her job and begin being nice and helpful to people. 

Until she needed more caffeine.

But anyway, it was a quarter past nine when she walked up the steps to the women's shelter where she worked as a case-worker for women who needed emotional and literal support. She had a new one under her care - a Buffy Summers, possibly psychotic due in part to her horrible parents who'd chosen to name her that. Oh well. At least she wasn't pregnant like so many of the others. And a non-smoker, so that's a plus.

Downing the last little bit of her coffee, Marta through away the cardboard cup, plastered her fake smile on her face, and gently knocked on the door of Buffy Summers' room.

"_Who's there?_" came a sweetly girlish voice from the other side.

"It's Marta, your case worker," she replied.

"_'It's Marta, your case worker' who?_"

Marta crinkled her forehead. "What?"

There was a few seconds pause while neither woman said anything. "_I don't get it._"

"Buffy, let me in." Immediately, the door swung open and she was greeted by Buffy's syrupy smile.

"Hi!" Buffy said, happily.

She honestly didn't know what she thought of Buffy. She was a weird one. Messed up for sure, but not in the same way that most of the other women here were screwed up; not cheated on by seedy boyfriends, running away from her problems, abandoned by loved ones, beaten... No... Buffy was just... peculiar... The petite blonde was always peppy and sometimes frustratingly oblivious, like she just wasn't quite a real human being. Of course, she was a real human being, so Marta had no explanations for why Buffy was like that.

But she wasn't a psychologist. It wasn't her job to figure out these things. She just had to get the girl back on her feet and back in control of her life.

She sat beside Buffy on her tiny little bed and discussed what they wanted to accomplish today, regarding getting a legit job and strategies for avoiding the problems of a troubled personal life. Buffy had listed serving fast food and killing things as the only occupations she had held, and Marta just couldn't tell if she was being serious or not. Either she was batshit insane or a fantastic joker. She appeared incredibly simple, yet could be devilishly clever. She was skeletally thin yet surprisingly strong. It was all so nonsensical.

She resolved herself to figuring this out as the day dragged on into the afternoon. "You wanna get something to eat?" she asked, hoping that Buffy would be more genuine over food.

Buffy smiled politely. "I don't eat."

"That much is obvious."


End file.
